No One

My eyes open, struggling to keep my ceiling in sight. Although I have never woke up from a coma, this morning feels what I can only imagine one would be like. I feel as though I have been resting since ancient times. A terrible ache has made its home in the front of my head, and although it seems like I slept straight through the night, I have not felt this terrible since my first days of sobriety, struggling with withdrawal symptoms that made me want to die. This pain and discomfort are different though. It feels wrong, very wrong, almost as if a bus hit me the day before.

I end up doing what I always do when my mind goes into the negative, I talk myself out of it and convince myself that everything is ok. It will pass, I know it will. Once I get fully awake and moving, everything will be much better.

I swing my legs out from under my covers before planting my feet on the floor, both aching like they always do in the early morning. After hours of laying on my side, allowing the tendons to tighten up, they painfully stretch as they connect with the floor.

“I hate it”, a mantra that plays on repeat in my head, every single morning. The first steps are always the worst of the day, teeth clinched down, wishing I could cut them off and throw them away. “We should have had bionic legs by now”, I mutter to myself, before realizing that even if that were the case, I am not in the social class that would be able to afford such wonders. Oh well.

I let out a sigh for only the sleeping dog and myself to hear. I tell myself that it makes me feel better, even if it doesn’t fix any of my problems. Despite the pain in the bottoms of my feet, a head that feels unbearable, and a body that feels wrecked for no apparent reason, I do my best to convince myself that I am optimistic for the day to come and that I must have ate something weird the day before or slept a little funny.

I finally muster up the willpower to start my day. The hardwood floors remind me of their existence as I cause them to creak beneath my feet, a sound that I rather enjoy, having grown up with silent and dirty carpet which never gave me the same feedback that the original wooden floors with their booming personality give me these days. For a moment I forget about everything. How lovely.

The bathroom, with its dirty tiles and loose dog hair bunched up in the corners, needs a good cleaning. No matter how many times I wipe it down, the hair makes its way into the bathroom, never failing to disgust me in the slightest. I will get to it later, I tell myself. I am always telling myself something, whether I listen to the advice or not is up to debate. I will probably debate myself later about this.

After emptying out a full bladder, astonished by my body’s ability to prevent itself from wetting my bed during sleep every night, I take a step over to the sink and that is when it happens. While washing my hands I stare at the mirror, with its dried water spots and speckles of toothpaste or plaque that jumped out while flossing, dirtying up the image facing back at me. My vision, struggling to sort the dirty mirror, sees something I can’t quite believe. Staring back at me is a person I do not recognize.

Startled, my knees begin to feel weak, my heart pounding out of my chest. A sinking feeling of staring back at an intruder in my apartment, a stranger.

Maybe I am sleeping still, I tell myself. I start to feel a deep panic, making me forget that I ever had foot problems in my life before. I have had anxiety attacks before, but this is much worse than anything I have ever felt. Staring back at me in the mirror is someone I have never seen before. He doesn’t seem unfamiliar, yet he also isn’t familiar in any way. If I were to believe in souls, I would have to believe that he was staring directly into mine, sucking any remaining life I have inside. The only thing it does is mirror my own movements, running my hands through my brown hair, him running through his black hair.

As tears run down my face, tears run down his, spilling out of his deep sunken eyes, his eyes unsettling and as black as the shades that I use to block out the sun penetrating the windows during the late summer days. He looks sick, pale, and frightening with a jawline much more refined than mine.

As I stare at him, studying the facial features that are more intense and menacing then my own, I feel an intense amount of pain and despair. I feel completely stripped down and bare, weak as I ever have. As my lips quiver, the thing in the mirror suddenly breaks from whatever normal connection we had left, the corners of the mouth of the face staring back at me begin to spread apart, showing sharp and numerous teeth, a smile that causes me to stumble back into the towel rack, cowering my gaze away from the creature. I blink my eyes several times, telling myself this can’t be happening. This must be a dream. That’s when I hear my dog jump off the couch.

Good, Rooney will make me feel better. He will snap me out of this, he must. When I see him, things will return to normal, and I will look back into the mirror and see the same man I have seen every day for the last 33 years of my life.

I hear his paws trot across the wood floors, his little claws making a tapping noise as he moves around the couch, dodging his squeaky toys before entering the little hallway between my bathroom and bedroom. That’s when I see him, staring right back at me, his eyes looking as frightful as I feel.

He lowers his head and does something he has never done in the 8 years I have had him; he growls at me. I don’t think I have ever heard him growl at anyone, actually.

“Rooney, it’s me. It’s your dad. It’s Alex.”, I tell him, voice trembling, not sure whether I believe what I am telling him, questioning if my name is even Alex anymore.

Rooney barks, loud enough to make me jump. The sound of his bark is amplified off the once charming wooden floors. I hate these fucking wood floors, I tell myself, the charm and love of them as forgotten and unfamiliar as my reflection in the mirror.

He barks louder and louder, causing me to get hysterical and confused. I am sure he as is confused as me. I try to tell him that it’s me again, that I love him, that I need his help, but he only barks more and more. I take a step outside of the bathroom and he takes a couple steps back, barking louder and louder. I notice a fear that I can not only see in his eyes but feel coming off of him. Perhaps it is my own fear that I feel.

He backs up to the left as I take a step forward, the barking no doubt waking up everyone in the building. I take a knee and work up the courage to attempt to reach out and pet him. If he feels my hand, he will remember me. He must. This is all a bad dream and maybe I will wake up. Please wake up, please.

As I go against all instinct, reaching towards my best friend, he snaps at my hand, his teeth sinking into my palm before causing me to pull it back in. His barking continues as blood starts pouring onto the wood floors. Were they ever charming to begin with?

A sense of shock comes over me, as well a severe amount of pain, giving a realization that this is not a dream that I had hoped it to be. I conclude that I am, in fact, not asleep. This is a living nightmare. I am now as unfamiliar with my dog as I am with myself. This isn’t even Rooney, the same dog that I got when he was a puppy of 8 weeks old.

This isn’t even me. I suddenly panic as I do not remember my name anymore. Vision blurred, heart pounding out of my chest, I make my way towards the door walking backwards, the dog barking and growling with a confused, angry, and even a sad look on his face.

I reach back towards the deadbolt about the door handle, unlocking it and grabbing the doorknob before twisting it to open the door, blood smeared all over the handle. The dog lunges towards the door before I quickly slip through, slamming it shut. I run down the unfamiliar stairs, barefoot and in my boxers, heading to what seems to be the door to exit outside of the building I am in.

Opening the door, I see a world I do not recognize. The sound of the dog barking in….in that place, still heard outside of the building. I look around and everything is alien to me. Buildings I don’t recognize. Plants and gardens that I have never seen before surround the building. People I have never seen before are staring outside of windows outside of the building complex. A woman that I have never seen before, walks by with two angry and barking dogs, pulling her towards me, wishing to do further harm to me. I don’t recognize them either.

I ask her for help, and she threatens to call the police. I feel as if I am going mad. More people come outside, yelling at me, something about getting out of here before I get hurt. I cannot tell what is going on anymore.

I feel sick to my stomach, the overwhelming feeling of fear causing me to bend over, throwing up the contents of my stomach all over the grass. My ears begin go deaf to the sounds of the dogs and the yelling of the people, most likely directed at me. I stare down at the grass, stained red from the blood that came out of my stomach, still dripping from my chin. My glance works closer in to see that my chest is also covered in blood.

Everything hurts but nothing hurts more than the fear and confusion I feel. I stand up, barefoot and bloody, and do my best version of running that I can. I run and run and run. I cannot distinguish the barking from the yelling as I eventually only hear my breathe. In and out, my breathe gets deeper and deeper. My vision narrows, until I cannot see anything anymore. I struggle as I try to figure out who I am, who I have become.

I feel like I trip, though I am not sure anymore, my senses gone and any feelings I have completely absent. A realization overpowers me, finishing off my identity in one fell swoop.

                       I am no one. I am nothing.